


The Extrinsic Factor in Choices

by dasakuryo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 04:47:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3277277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dasakuryo/pseuds/dasakuryo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia is barely holding on to life and it's all Stiles' fault. He should have protected her instead of Malia. Now all he can do is beg for her recovery as his heart sinks with guilt and fear of the outcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Extrinsic Factor in Choices

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a fill of a prompt I got at stydia-fanfiction on Tumblr. You can also find it [there](http://stydia-fanfiction.tumblr.com/post/103486739420/the-extrinsic-factor-in-choices) :) Thanks for reading!

This—this is _his_ fault.

He should have known better. He should have known by then that Malia wasn’t a defenceless child in need of his protection. She had lived in the woods as a feral werecoyote and had managed to survive for years. She had strength, enhanced senses, and claws, and fangs—

Unlike Lydia.

Malia wasn’t frail, or at least not as fragile as humans were. But despite being a supernatural creature, a banshee of all things, Lydia was pretty much human in a lot of aspects —she was indeed unable to heal easily and quickly from major, serious nearly _fatal_ wounds.

_He knew that._

Then why hadn’t he thought about that before jumping to Malia’s aid? Why hadn’t he weighed the risks and perils?

_Why?_

The ideas stormed through his mind as he sprinted through the forest, his desperation silenced Scott’s screams commanding him to come back, claiming that it was too dangerous, that they should get some back-up before jumping right back into that madness. But Stiles wouldn’t —couldn’t— listen to him.

He could only run as fast as he could right back into that nightmare, with nothing more than his lingering hope that he’d be on time to save her. He clung to that hope when his lungs started to burn, his legs to ache, when fear threatened to clog up his throat. Little did he wait before resuming his running. Even though his feet slipped on the moist fallen leaves carpeting the ground and he felt a sharp sting on his ankle —he just had to cover a few meters more.

However, it didn’t matter how determined he was to get her out of there, or how he had everything sorted out even before setting a foot on that clearing —first aid techniques and steps flooding his mind, how to move and carry her back to the safety of the pack. All those things didn’t matter because the reality took the air out of his lungs and struck utter fear into his heart. His feet nailed to the ground, as his eyes rested upon a view he wished he’d never seen.

Stiles scurried and fell limply to the ground. He couldn’t miss the deadly pale colour of Lydia’s skin, nor the almost faint although ragged breathing, or the grotesque redness painting her blouse —contrasting horridly with the white cloth. But it wasn’t the blood what was troubling him; he’d grown accustomed to it by then. It wasn’t the blood itself, with its distinctive dark red shade, but rather its almost ferrous scent what made his nose twitch.

It was so strong that Stiles could swear he could _taste it_ at the front of his tongue—

But Lydia’s abdomen and shirt were not the only things in that clearing that were decorated with it. Because when Stiles tried to move her, he spotted it on the leaves —like splatters, like drops. All of a sudden his hands were on her face, his heart nearly stopped beating when his fingers met the coldness of her skin.

Stiles could only see red, as if everything had Lydia’s blood on it. But literally everything, from her blouse to her neck and abdomen, from the leaves to the rocks and the ground, from her shirt to his hands—

Stiles stared at his hands, throat clogging up, eyes burning and chest growing heavier. His hands were covered in blood, dark red, thick blood —Lydia’s blood.

_Lydia’s blood was on his hands._

His whole body shook frantically out of fear and desperation, as his hands found their way back to the deep wound under her ribcage. The blood kept leaking between his fingers, like tiny crimson rivers flowing down his hands. But neither his hands nor his effort seemed to be enough to prevent Death’s claim over the girl.

Lydia’s life kept outpouring from between his fingers.

Stiles teeth nearly screeched when he clenched his jaw, almost beyond what was humanly possible. He squeezed his eyes shut as he gulped, or tried to —for the knot of despair in his throat made it an impossible task to fulfil. He realized that tears must have been meandering silently down his face for a while, because the soft icy breeze made their wet paths itch.

But as much as his skin would itch he wouldn’t budge and dare to sweep them with his arm. Nothing would make him stop pressuring at Lydia’s wounds. Not even the rustle of leaves behind them or the soft thumps of steps, clear signals that the creature had done anything but going away after the fight.

The breeze was icy cold against his skin and the steam of his laborious breathing swirled around him in pearly spirals. No spirals were coming out of Lydia’s parted lips, or from her nose for that matter. Stiles had the pressing urge to lean forward and brought a hand under her nose, an ear to her chest or a finger to her wrist to check that she was still there, to make sure it —he— wasn’t too late.

For a brief second, he relieved the pressure and in turn the crimson rivers down his hands grew wider. He grunted and whimpered, hard-up, and cursed and pleaded under his breath to a God he wasn’t sure he still believed in to make it _stop_ and save her —because she didn’t deserve to drift away into oblivion out of his own reckless stupidity.

His hands started to numb, wet and sticky from the warm blood that still kept flowing underneath them. He wanted to scream for Scott, tell him to get help or do something because he wasn’t sure she was _breathing_ —even if the constant and steady flow of blood indicated otherwise.

"I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Lydia." He mumbled, erratically.

Stiles couldn’t be sure if his mind was playing tricks on him again, but Lydia seemed paler than the last time he’d looked at her. And that realization did nothing but increase his despair. He didn’t know whether he should carry her to the others, risking injuring her even more and increasing the loss of blood, or wait there for help.

The silence became too smothering, as it did Lydia’s lack of response to his words. He refused to believe she was gone, she couldn’t be. He couldn’t lose another friend, none of them could. Besides, he’d promised he’d protect her; he wasn’t ready to break that promise just yet. And the guilt bottled up in his throat at that thought, because he had done so, consciously or not, when he jumped to shield Malia from the jaguar warrior’s charge.

And the scene was all too familiar; like that time she found her after Peter had bitten her. It was the same, the rush to get her somewhere safe, the excruciating preoccupation tightening his chest at the possibility he might not see her again, the feeling of utter despair of having felt hopeless to help her. Only this time he did have a chance, he could have protected her instead of Malia. But he made his choice in that split of a second—

 _The_ _wrong choice_.

"Please, don’t go, I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I’m sorry."

He could not pinpoint the moment when he choked with his own sobs. Perhaps it was the moment he brought a trembling finger to her neck, frantically searching for her pulse, and he couldn’t feel the vein pulsing underneath; or when he half embraced her, an arm across her chest clinging helplessly at the back of her neck, as mumbles of forgiveness and pleas blotted each other out.

His fingers dipped into the ground. He clawed at the wet dirt and the leaves as a scream of anguish climbed up his throat but died at his clenched jaw, coming out of his mouth as a hiss instead. His other hand was still pressing hardly at the wound, although it had grew weaker as his body collapsed trembling at the blinding emotional pain. 

He squeezed his eyes shut once again, but instead of opening them afterwards, his eyelids remained tightly together. Unconsciously, his left hand was sliding back to press at the wound—

Stiles heart nearly stopped when something wrapped around his wrist and pulled it backwards. He snapped violently, his whole body tensed, convinced that the moment he turned around he would stare right back into the creature’s eyes. But it wasn’t thirst of blood what his eyes spotted; but rather warmness and understanding as his eyes locked with the paramedic’s.

The woman nodded briefly, as she took him aside gently, drawing him by the arm. There were comforting words coming out of her mouth, words Stiles could not really connect with any known meaning —they were somehow distant to him, as if they belonged to a dream or as he himself had been detached from his own body and mind.

Anxiety clogged up his throat once again as he saw the paramedics lifting her limp body off the ground, and cautiously but quickly placed atop the stretcher. He wanted to run after them, jump into the ambulance but his legs weren’t responding to the impulses of his nervous system.

"It’s over now, sweetheart, she’s in good hands now." The woman assured him with another brief nod and a shadow of a smile on her lips. However, the message was devoid of meaning for him.

He couldn’t take her words at face value. He couldn’t trust her —especially considering that the Alpha pack had once been on the verge of finishing Isaac and Braeden off at the very same hospital she was going. And even if he didn’t want his mind to go back to _those_ fateful days, he had to take account of how futile the efforts to stop the Nogitsune and the Onis had been back in the day.

So even if she was barely holding to life, how was her being sent to the hospital any guarantee that the monster wouldn’t show up at her bedside to finish the job those wounds couldn’t? He barely registered having moved, all that he knew afterwards was that someone was actually preventing him from jumping into the ambulance with Lydia.

He grunted and tried to push through, but his feet only drew ploughs in the ground and crushed the wet golden leaves. When the doors closed and the inability to keep watching over her became more tangible and real, he charged again harder —only this time he didn’t just clash with a force in the opposite direction. Scott snapped him back to reality, a sharp tone that somehow managed to border on kindness, softness even.

His best friend merely looked at him, a shadow of a comforting smile on the corners of his lips. Stiles didn’t utter a word but Scott nodded in turn, after all, he didn’t need to ask him what or if anything was troubling him —Stiles imagined he must be reeking of anxiety, fear, dread, pain and another bunch of heart-wrenching emotions that he couldn’t quite define.

Scott squeezed his shoulder.

"She’s holding on," Stiles filled in the missing adverb at the end of Scott’s sentence in his mind, but managed to somewhat respond to the statement with a gulp. "We should get going—"

Stiles didn’t even budge when Kira took the Jeep keys from him. Instead, he let himself be carried by Scott’s hand on his shoulder all the way back to the vehicle, as if the preoccupation overwhelming his heart had left him numb —which, to an extent, was completely true.

Stiles didn’t want to close his eyes, for even during the briefest of seconds when he blinked, he could see Lydia’s body plummeting to the ground, and the ear-piercing sound of her scream echoed in his head again —the utter dread wrinkling her face as the sharp, double-edged dagger pierced through her skin. He wished he could also forget the image of the blood slowly dripping down the black glassy obsidian blade, the sinister smile that crept into the spirit’s face. So wide a smile, that it had almost made the creature’s lips touch the fangs of the skull mask.

The rest was a blur, except for the fact he’d been desperate to go for Lydia. Scott or Kira must have dragged him away as they escaped; he did remember screaming something about not leaving her behind and suddenly the pained, guilty expression flickering across Scott’s face —an expression that was still etched to the boy’s features.

In retrospective, Stiles couldn’t really blame Scott for his decision. Scott would never leave anyone behind. He’d specifically stated that Chris, Isaac and his pack were minutes away —and even Stiles in his state of despair had known that if the spirit was still in the mood for a fight, they needed all the help they could get to bring him down. Of course that hadn’t been enough to stop him.

As an Alpha Scott had to ensure the safety and security of the pack, and everyone had been seriously injured in that fight —the enhanced healing had worked to their advantage, but had they stayed on that clearing a few minutes longer they’d all have probably shared the same fate. Everyone had their fair share of wounds. Kira had a nasty deep cut across her cheek, along with several scratches pouring lesser blood by the minute; Scott was limping from another deep injury on his thigh, and his neck was decorated with five straight crimson marks. Even if Liam’s scratches were somewhat more superficial than Kira’s and Scott’s, he was still injured.

Stiles himself had a few serious, although non-fatal injuries, from that encounter. Scratches more than anything, a cut on his cheek and five itching stripes on his arm —looking back, charging at the jaguar warrior with no other weapon than his bare hands would definitely not make it to the list of his brightest ideas. But at least it served the purpose of getting it away from Lydia. If it hadn’t been for Kira probably the thing would have turned him to shreds in the blink of an eye… and he’d probably have to thank Malia later for having dragged him away from there, even though he had fought against it with all the strength he’d been able to summon.

It was as if Stiles could feel Malia’s glaring at him. Probably she was furious about it, about him trying to rescue Lydia even at his own peril —perhaps the fact that he’d harshly broken free from her grip and stormed back there had something to do with it, too. On top of that, he’d not turned back not even once when she too screamed for him to wait.

Her jaw was set, wrinkles of anger on the corner of her lips and furrowing her brow. She parted her lips to say something, but it was cut short by Kira’s muffled whimper of pain when the movement made the girl’s body bump against an open wound. Malia lowered her gaze and mumbled some sort of apology to the kitsune, who in turn shushed her, assured it was nothing and kept driving.

Malia pressed at her forearm, right on one of the still open wounds she had left, and turned around slightly to look at the back seat. Scott managed to shot her a half smile that met a hint of a scorn on Malia’s side. Stiles decided to play the obliviousness card and ignored the gesture, and brushed the trail of blood with the back of his hand instead to keep his mind off things—

_And that would have been a wonderful course of action if he hadn’t frozen at the sight of his red palms._

Scott’s squeezing his shoulder stopped him from falling into yet another spiral of desperation, but even his best friend’s comfort wasn’t enough to keep the guilt at bay.

*********

They were all waiting on the hallway for the doctor to arrive. Everyone was trying to mask their anxiety, some of them were better at it than other —Stiles was failing at it, for he wouldn’t stop tapping his feet or biting his nails absentmindedly. However, he wasn’t the only one. Kira kept biting her lower lip to sigh afterwards; and Liam couldn’t stop pacing from one end of the hall to the other. Two of the few collected ones were Scott and Isaac, the latter staring at the surgery room with a frown on his face while Scott’s eyes were fixed on the floor.

Isaac gaze went from the metal door to the pack; his eyes scanned the group and ended settling on Stiles a few more seconds than on the others. The werewolf nose wrinkled at the scents of emotions wafting from the boy, but neither of them said anything when their eyes locked for a fraction of seconds.

 Isaac turned to Scott instead.

"So— she still hasn’t told him, has she?" There was a hint of disbelief in his voice, along with something else that resembled oddly to understanding.

Scott shook his head, and for a brief moment he allowed himself to let a hint of a smile break through the preoccupation. Isaac lowered his gaze as a sudden rush of pain made his heart ache, this time guilt darkening his expression into one of deep sorrow. His fists clenched.

"I should have got there sooner," Isaac whispered under his breath.

He blinked, as if he was trying to make sure the sudden and slight trembling of his fingers wasn’t real. He gulped.

"I’m sorry Allison—" he whispered under his breath, clearly more to himself than for anyone else to hear. His voice cracked at the memory, and he didn’t need to gaze at Scott to know that the other boy had suddenly tensed by his side. He gulped, but that didn’t loosen the tight knot in his throat.

He felt his throat also starting to burn, as desperation crawled its way up and he had to clench his jaw as well, to prevent the sob and the whimper that were trying to get through. He swigged again as if it were a reflex, but if was useless, and he soon felt his eyes burning as well, beginning to water.

A soft squeeze on his shoulder made him flinch; he sniffed before turning to Scott, hoping that would help to keep the tears at bay. He met Scott’s warm gaze, although sadness did darkened the light of his eyes right before he spoke.

"She’s fine, Isaac. Lydia is going to make it." He assured him, Scott voice a lot more confident than how he indeed felt. But he couldn’t afford the luxury to let his mind go down that path, both for his and his friends’ sakes. Besides, not for a moment had the young Alpha stopped listening to the distant, slow but steady heartbeat of the girl. He’d not be able to live with himself if something happened to Lydia, the very friend Alisson ultimately had given her life for.

He looked at Stiles, who had eventually risen to his feet and started pacing as well, as one hand twiddled the fingers of the other nervously. They locked eyes and for a moment Scott found himself unable to nod reassuringly in return, for the pain in his best friend eyes was too distressing a sight. It was Stiles who trudged to his side and let his body fall almost limply, with a weary sigh from his lips, on the seat beside him.

His friend’s eyes were fixed on his hands, and Scott didn’t need to ask him what was wrong. Aside from the obvious anxiety for their friend’s wellbeing, he knew that Stiles kept seeing the redness staining his skin —even though he had done a thorough washing of his hand, the ferrous scent was still lingering in the air enough for a werewolf to notice it.

Right when he sensed Stiles moving, shoulders dropping and body suddenly growing laxer at the utter fear and anxiety, Scott quickly reached for his friend’s arm and his hand closed around it, soothing the tremble that had taken over him. Stiles went still at the contact, blinked at him —half confused, half stunned— and somehow managed to fight down the urge to throw his arms around Scott.

Stiles eyelids fluttered when he blinked once again, his eyes were glimmering. He brushed off the tears that had still managed to break through. He bit his lower lip, hard; and when he turned to Scott there was such a mix of emotions in his eyes and expression that Scott only managed to squeeze his arm tighter.

"What if I was too late?" his voice was so broken and helpless, so filled with guilt, that Scott didn’t find it odd that the question had come out as a whimper, "I should have protected her— her and not Malia, she wasn’t the one who needed my help; and I did nothing to—" suddenly no sound came out of his mouth, as if he couldn’t find the words at the triggering memory of the jaguar warrior attacking the girl.

"Stiles, you did do something for her, you came back for her, didn’t you?" Scott made a brief pause, in which Stiles glared at him, shooting him a look that was both a mix of relief and anguish, "I’m pretty sure you saved her Stiles, when you put pressure on the wound… think about how she would have been if you hadn’t done that by the time the paramedics found her."

The instant the words poured out of his mouth in a constant flow, the moment he saw Stiles expression transfiguring to one of utter dread at the implication he knew that that hadn’t been the nicest way to put it. But Stiles didn’t lash out, his gaze got lost in the distance. He merely stared straight ahead.

It took Scott a moment to realize something was off, his gaze followed Stile’s. Nurses were rushing to the opposite end of the hall, and the usual noises and chatters of the hospitals were cut short by a scream. _An ear-piercing scream_. And Stiles’ blood turned to ice when he saw Natalie Martin trying to break through a group of nurses. They were frantically trying to keep her from storming into the surgery room.

When the two metals doors opened only moments later and the doctor emerged from the room, Stile’s heart seemed to be in his throat when trying to spot the chief surgeon expression. He begged for him not to look down apologetically, as the eye contact burned him, he begged for his voice not to be softened by the pitch of pity. He begged that the scene that was about to play before his eyes didn’t resemble the one in which he played a role when he was eight.

When the doctor pulled off the surgical mask, Stiles held his breath.  

*********

Stiles tried not to take heed of it, but failed. He couldn’t just ignore the greyish shade of her skin, almost as white as the sheets, nor the blue lips. He wanted to hold her hand but stopped halfway, he wasn’t sure he would be able to stomach the coldness of her skin.

The knot tightened in his throat and he gulped. Once he had told her that if something happened to her he would go out of his freaking mind, he had implied by it that she should think before acting, that she should stop being reckless whenever her life was at stake. He had meant she needed to look out for what others, _enemies_ , could do to her. Truth to be told, he had always assumed he’d not be the one who would jeopardize her safety, but the one who would protect it.

What a fool he had made of himself, how blatant a lie he had clung to.

In the end, it didn’t matter what the spirit had done, all that mattered was that she had nearly died because of _him_. Stiles tried not to think about how close she’d been to— how close he had been to losing her.

Stiles would have never imagined that the responsibility for it would be his. Had he ever contemplated such thing coming to pass, he had always pictured himself as the one that had failed to protect her, the one who had been too late; rather than the one behind the trigger.

There was nothing that could ease the burden of his remorse, and he was certainly most reluctant to forgive himself anytime soon. It hadn’t helped at all that Natalie Martin had insisted on Stiles coming in with her, when the doctor stated _"no more than two at a time, she needs to rest"_.

Clearly something in his face must have given him away, why else would the woman exit the room crying? Perhaps he was over-reacting, but the guilt was so overwhelming that he couldn’t consider the idea that maybe Natalie Martin had sensed his disquietude, and so resolved to give him a moment alone with her. In Stiles mind, he couldn’t bear to be in the same room as the responsible for it —because mothers had that special sense by which they always knew everything. Mothers could always read the signs invisible to others, even though he’d lost his mother at a very young age he remembered as much.

His gaze never left her face. He could hear the rhythmical sound of the heart monitor, could picture the green light against the black background drawing her heartbeat. The boy sat down on the chair, his fingers tapping his thighs as he kept a watchful eye on her —finding some sort of inner peace in the almost imperceptible raising and lowering of her chest.

Minutes ticked by, but Stiles couldn’t bring himself to approach more than that, to touch her, let alone take hold of her hand. Even though she was going to make it, even though he was on a hospital room and not down standing in the morgue, he couldn’t do it. The guilt left him numb, unable to react or, more accurately, to act on the impulses he had to make sure she wasn’t going anywhere.

The monitor kept beeping; the anaesthesia hadn’t worn off yet. Stiles pinched his nose and let out a sigh in frustration. She should be waking up anytime now, and the lack of changes in her state was what was driving him up the wall with every passing minute. What if she didn’t wake up, what then? What if she had fallen into a coma because of his stupidity?—

A knock on the door shattered his line of thought. There was a creek and when he turned his gaze from Lydia to the entrance he saw Kira, leant on against the doorframe. She almost bowed apologetically at the interruption, and then his lips curled into a kind smile even though worry hadn’t disappeared completely.

"Hi," her smile didn’t fade, but softened when she looked at him, "Isaac is fetching Melissa, and Scott is with Ms. Martin. We’re heading downtown to get dinner, is there something else you want besides curly fries?"

"I can go if you want, and someone can stay instead, we’re all worried about her and I already feel bad about making her mum leave." Stiles answered, culpability pouring out of his mouth with every word and making him say things he didn’t truly felt.

"Stiles, it’s fine, none of us will get mad at you for wanting to stay with her," Kira said, understanding and comfort in her tone, "Ms. Martin said the whole thing had shaken her pretty badly; I guess that after chatting with Scott she’d be more prepared to face it—"

Stiles knew what Kira was implying but the fact that Scott would take some of the woman’s pain away didn’t change a thing about how he felt.

"And I know you, Stiles, so please don’t pretend to be okay with leaving when I and everyone know you’d rather pull your heart out of your chest."

The bluntness of the statement caught him by surprise. He looked at her, perplexed, hold back a sigh and his eyes focused on Lydia’s sleeping figure again.

Perhaps he should have known already that he couldn’t outsmart a fox, right? After all, Kira and him had got pretty close after the whole nogitsune affair, both of them felt responsible and guilty about everything that had happened —Kira for providing the power the fox needed, and Stiles for letting him take control of his body.

Eventually, while sorting everything out and trying to cope with those emotions, a friendship between the two forged silently —though the closeness they shared wasn’t anything like the one he had with Scott. Stiles would do research on kitsune lore and show his findings to Kira who, unlike Scott under similar circumstances, was pretty excited to look into all the stuff and learn more about potential magical abilities. And, supernatural issues aside, it was nice having someone with whom he could share all the geek-ness for once.

"Thanks." It was all he could say in return.

 ”Anytime, Stiles.” She offered him another genuine smile.

"Have you seen Malia?" He asked afterwards, suddenly realizing that Kira hadn’t mentioned her and that he hadn’t saw her either since he’d entered the room.

Kira’s beaming expression dropped instantly at the question. Doubt made her gracefulness turn awkward, the yellow _sageo_ of the katana danced between her fingers.

"She left a while ago, said something about helping your dad and Derek with the cover-up before the police could draw to any suspicions—" There was a short pause and an intake of breath but instead of continuing Kira fell silent and lowered her gaze before turning around to leave.

"You can say it; I won’t get mad at you, Kira."

"I might have overheard her grunting something about that there was no point on you staying here, that if anything changed someone would let us know… and something about that Lydia’s mother could stay instead or something—" Her voice went up at the end of the statement, as if she was questioning the veracity of what she had heard.

But Stiles didn’t need Kira to fake it, he knew that was probably true, every single word of it —and that Malia had meant every single of those words, as well. He ruffled his hair absently before looking at Kira again.

"But she’s helping with the cover-up thing so —you know; it’s progress, isn’t it?"

Stiles snorted and Kira looked at him genuinely puzzled. Instead of adding anything to it, he laughed dryly; his jaw was set soon afterwards. Suddenly he realized how utter ridiculous he must have sound all those times he’d excused her behaviour. And the truth was that, right then, Stiles couldn’t care less whether Malia was mad at him or not —considering precisely _why_ Lydia was on her current state.

"Whatever just— if you see my dad let him know I’ll be staying here tonight, I don’t think he’s paying that much attention to his phone right now."

"Sure," Kira jogged to the door after a quick glance at an incoming text, "so— curly fries then?"

Stiles nodded, and right when Kira was about to close the door Melissa appeared in his field of vision. His eyes darted across the room as the woman checked Lydia’s vitals. She smiled at him briefly after putting a new I.V. line in place. Stiles ruffled his hair with his fingers again, as he gave a furtive glance to the heart monitor.

"The worst is over now, Stiles. She’ll be okay, in time."

Stiles couldn’t bring himself to make even the slightest of gestures to show he’d heard her, but rather his eyes kept focusing on Lydia’s face. He wished Kira hadn’t gone so soon, or perhaps that Scott had stayed behind with him, because now the guilt was creeping its way back into his mind.

He wanted to bury his face in his hands. Aside from the steady raising and lowering of her chest, there was no change in her condition. His hands itched; Stiles had the sudden urge to grab her by the shoulders and shake her back to consciousness. The boy ended up messing his hair again just to keep them occupied.

"Would you mind giving me a hand, Stiles?"

Melissa’s request gave him another chance to keep himself from overthinking things, although he did caught glimpses of the girl out of the corner of his eye every few seconds, as he grabbed the blankets from the woman’s hands.

When going back with the blankets, Stiles peeked at Lydia once again. He had intended it to be just a quick look to check on her, but suddenly his gaze froze and remained fixed on her. The sight overwhelmed him. The many wires and vials attached to her, connected with machines and equipment that both monitored her health and were keeping her alive made his stomach turn over. Just like—

He couldn’t choke back the faint strangled whimper that mercilessly found a way out of his mouth, breaking his struggle to remain poised.

"Stiles, look at me," Melissa said, her voice so soft and concerned that it sounded more like a plea than a demand.

He obeyed, biting his lower lip fiercely in the vain hope that that would keep the tears at bay. He shot her a harsher glare than he had initially intended to, something that he’d feel sorry about later but that he couldn’t really care about right now. It wasn’t just knowing that he could have done something to spare Lydia this suffering, but also the odd but yet excruciating resemblance the situation had with his mum’s. He had too felt guilty about it at the time, even if it there was nothing he could have done to stop the illness from taking her away. The feeling of dread and desperation that were clogging up his throat—

Stiles didn’t miss the assessing expression on Melissa’s face, nor the way she nearly flinched, defensively, when he moved. He held back a grunt. Stiles couldn’t really blame her for being guarded around him of all people, particularly not after what the Nogitsune had told her —and deep down, Stiles didn’t complain because in a twisted way he thought he _deserved_ some of it, much as he’d tried to convince Scott that if necessary he’d have to kill him.

"You have to stop doing that."

He remained silent.

"Look what a mess you’ve made with your hair, Stiles."

"What?" He asked disbelievingly, one eyebrow higher than the other, jaw slightly slack.

"Here, let me." She answered fondly.

Before Stiles could react, Melissa had already covered the short distance between them and her fingers were cautiously stroking his hair, as she arranged the locks pointing in every direction. Stiles felt his throat constricting once again, but this time it wasn’t because of the guilt. Not at all. There was something in Melissa’s gentle eyes, in the way they lit up with fondness and affection, something about the softness and caring of her touch that reminded Stiles about his mum—

Even in those days when the illness had already claimed most of her, even in those days when she could barely recognise anything or anyone around her, the little things had never faded. And Stiles would arrive from school with tons of stories to tell her, and he would talk and talk and talk —sometimes for several minutes straight— as the colouring book slowly gained its crayon colours from both of them. And even though sometimes her expression seemed vacant and lost, Claudia would tidy Stiles hair absently, would sometimes ruffle it a bit to fix it again a moment later. Stiles would look up then; nose and forehead scrunched up, mouth slightly open; and Claudia would smile in return before grabbing a blue crayon from the cardboard box.

_Why blue, mummy?_

_Because it’s pretty._

"Look, dear, I know what this isn’t easy —and by the look on your face I know that you’re thinking about your mum, Stiles. But I promise you Lydia will recover, okay?" The woman voice was comforting; a hand now on his shoulder, and the shadow of a smile gently curling up the corners of her mouth.

But Stiles memories indicated otherwise. He really didn’t want his mind to go down that path, but the severity of the situation, combined with his conflicted emotions about his responsibility on Lydia’s fate sent him down the cliff face.

"That’s the same thing the nurses told me when I was eight. It didn’t make a difference though, and it wasn’t true. She did die, and I— I — I felt it was my fault. I know I was wrong then, but this time I am not, she’s like this because of me." He retorted back, bitterly.

He couldn’t be okay with it, or relieved, knowing that she almost died because he’d chosen to help a girl that could have fought back if she needed to, instead of protecting the one person in the whole pack apart from him that couldn’t trigger enhanced healing and to whom serious injuries were almost a death sentence.

He squeezed his eyes shut to stop himself from looking at her again. He didn’t want to felt disheartened. The constant beep of the machine beside him somehow brought some easiness to his turmoil. He guessed how Mellissa’s half smile must have dropped at his statement, imagined sorrow taking the place of hope in the light of her eyes.

"Scott told me what happened in the woods, Stiles. If anything, you saved her life—" She fought back, her tone calm and tender. Her expression still soothing and understanding, determined to drag him out of such misery.

Stiles clenched his jaw harder in frustration but didn’t say a thing. He feared that if he did as much as opening his mouth he’d end up bursting into tears instead of retorting Melissa’s statements. The only thing he wanted was that Lydia regained consciousness. The only thing he truly cared about was her well-being; he’d gladly trade the chances he had ever had to be with her for that. If she chose hatred instead of friendship from then on, then Stiles would be also fine with it. He could bear the thought of being out of her life, but he couldn’t bear losing her—

_Not like this._

"If something happens to her," his voice cracked, fear making his lips tremble, "I’ll never forgive myself—" he trailed off then, knuckles turned white as the helplessness clawed at his heart.

Melissa squeezed his shoulder one last time on her way out. Stiles barely acknowledge the gesture; his gaze was focused on Lydia and the soft, almost faint, sound of her breathing —hardly audible over the constant beep of the heart monitor and the respirator sounds.

He pressed his thumb and index finger to his nose bridge, inhaling deeply. He closed his eyes for a moment, hoping that this time his mind wouldn’t choose to play tricks on him. The exhaustion was finally kicking in, if the dull pain pulsing at his eyelids and the itching of his eyes was anything to go by —although the boy couldn’t really make out if tiredness was the cause; or if it were the same tears he’d done his damnedest to keep from falling.

Unconsciously, he tugged at the white sheet of Lydia’s bed. His eyelids fluttered open. He resisted the impulse of brushing the back of her hand —only inches away from his— with his thumb.  Instead, he spread out one of the blankets on the bed, and stood there staring at Lydia’s sleeping figure for a while. He rubbed the nape of his neck, doubting.

The silence suddenly felt _too smothering_.

With a sigh, Stiles slump down on the chair again. He run his hands through is hair, tapped his feet nervously. Although everything and everyone kept insisting that she would recover, Stiles couldn’t shake off the feeling of anxiousness in his stomach. Mellisa’s words, though comforting, hadn’t helped either.

He lounge back in the cushioned chair, his gaze never left her face. From where he was, he could barely guess the pearly steam colliding against the plastic mask every time she breathed. He took his phone out of his pocket and his fingers waggled over the screen. He didn’t know whether to press the speed dial key for his dad or Malia. After all, he hadn’t heard from either of them for a while.

He held his thumb over the screen, unable to make up his mind. Should he call her even when she was upset? They should be able to talk things out; or he could always call his dad with the pretext of wanting to know if everything had worked out and ask him to keep an eye on the werecoyote girl. He was sure Malia wouldn’t want to talk to him, especially now that she had a bone to pick and the slightest of conversations would probably result in her blowing a fuse.

"Hi—uhm, I thought you had all headed downtown."

Stiles didn’t jolted at Ms. Martin voice, but his phone nearly dropped to the floor. His gaze shifted from his phone screen to the woman, who was standing by the end of the bed. The ghosts of preoccupation and dread were still clouding the usual liveliness of her face.

"I stayed behind—" was the only thing that the boy managed to reply, awkwardly.

She didn’t appear to be bothered by his indication of the obvious. Had Stiles been able to know what Natalie Martin was thinking, he would have realised that she couldn’t be bothered in the slightest. Quite the opposite, he would have known of the warm feeling it brought to her heart and how she had to fight down a smile, because of course Natalie remembered the boy who had never left the waiting room —that other time when Lydia had been admitted after the incident the night of the dance.

And she couldn’t exactly be mad at him for being there for her daughter, and Natalie Martin would never object for this boy to keep a watchful eye over her —especially since he was the one who made her come out of her room, where she’d locked herself after Allison’s and Aiden’s funerals for three days straight. Hadn’t it been for Stiles, she was sure it’d have been a lot more.

But of course, Stiles had no way of knowing all these things, and his stomach clenched at Ms. Martin silence. His eyes avoided her gaze, and he chose to focus them on Lydia again instead.

"I’m glad you did," the woman eventually said, her voice sounded oddly nasal and the faint sound of the ruffle of cloth gave her emotions away, "you know, after Al— after what happened to your friends she hasn’t been herself," she sniffed, the plastic coffee cup in front of her mouth as if she wanted to cover the tears that were dropping from her chin, "she’s been so lost into her own grief that— well, I guess I can’t really blame her, I went through the same when my mum died but I’d rather she didn’t keep all these things bottled up, I wish she could trust me so I can help her ease some of the pain—"

As she kept talking, Stiles noticed it became more and more difficult for her to keep her voice flat, the tumult of feelings was obvious in the way her lips trembled and how her hand was shaking slightly. Her voice seemed to be on the verge of breaking with emotion by the end of the statement. Stiles looked down and scraped his neck awkwardly as she spoke, giving her the chance to cry freely if so she pleased.

"I guess I should be thanking _you_ for being there for her when I couldn’t.”

Stiles froze at the statement, but somehow managed to lift his gaze and look the woman in the eye. He couldn’t smile in return, and not because his jaw was slacked at the surprise, but rather because he didn’t have the heart to smile at this woman, this worried mother, thank her and pretend he’d nothing to do with what had happened. On both occasions, because _who_ had been the one who had let the Nogitsune unleash chaos in the first place?

Scott had told him time and time again that it wasn’t his fault, that he shouldn’t beat himself about something he had had no control over. Deaton himself had told him, although it felt more like a command at the time that he had to move on and look past it. In theory it was such easy a task, although in practice not so much —he hated to think about Malia has a distraction from all that, but in reality she had provided that for him, one way or the other.

The ghosts of the past tormented him in moments like this, when he was left alone with his own thoughts and the mind the Nogitsune had so easily _broken_ and _toyed around_ with.

He watched Natalie Martin tidying up the locks of Lydia’s hair, he didn’t miss the way that little smile of hers trembled —as well as her fingers— when the soft touch didn’t bring about any response. She sniffed loudly and sipped at what was left of her coffee.

"I’m going to get another coffee; do you want anything from the vending machine?"

Stiles’ eyes never left Lydia. He shook his head. Had he been looking at the woman, he would have notice the way she pursued her lips, biting back a smile of tenderness at the sight before her eyes. She excused herself and exited the room with the distinctive stomp of her high heels.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity for him, Stiles leaned closer to Lydia. His hands were now atop the bed, a few inches away from her forearm wrapped in bandages. Only a small portion of skin was visible, where the nurses had pierced her skin to put the I.V. line in place. The white cloth had a small reddish brown drop. The image of his palms wet with blood flickered through his mind.

Stiles swallowed down. One of his hands slowly, awkwardly went for the uncovered skin of her wrist. His fingers lingered there for a moment, fearing, doubting. Until he finally brushed with his thumb the icy cold skin. A sheepishly smile crept to his lips when, after a few seconds, the skin underneath his fingers felt warmer.

"Hey there Lyds, I don’t know if you can hear me but—" His eyes looked at her face, hoping that by some miracle they would flutter open as he spoke.

_But I used to do the same thing with my mum when she had a difficult day. The doctors and nurses said that most likely she couldn’t hear me but— you know what? Fuck that and their theories written in stone; more than once my mum asked about a random thing I’ve told her when she was asleep. So yeah, whatever—_

Of course he kept that part within the limits of his mind. He brushed his thumb against her hand again.

"I’m sorry about—you know. I should have protected you, and it’s killing me now that you’re like this because of me. I already feel guilty enough for taking Alisson and Aiden away from you," his voice trembled a bit at the names, but he gulped and forced himself to keep going, "I know what you’re thinking, it was _him_ and not me but— I still fear that he’s there sometimes, what if he left something behind? What if somehow he’s tricking me again from inside the nemeton box?”

Perhaps outpouring his fears wasn’t what he had in mind at the start, but it flowed somehow. The heart monitor kept beeping at its usual steady rate. He paused, expecting something he couldn’t quite define. He glanced quickly at the clock on the wall; the anaesthesia should have worn off by now, right? Why wasn’t she waking up? He swallowed again, harder this time.

"Sorry about that, Kira and you must be pretty fed up about me coming up with the same thing over and over again whenever you get me to talk. Kira is too kind to tell me to shut up, and you’re too worried about me— and I guess hearing me out and helping me also kept you from, you know," _thinking that your best friend and your boyfriend are dead_.

Suddenly all the times she had been cast aside, consciously or not, acquired a complete different dimension for him. And he felt guilty about it too, he’d drifted away from her because it was too painful for him —wasn’t he putting her through some twisted way of constant trauma reminiscence?

"I’m an idiot for what I did— I kinda pushed you away, didn’t I? I know there are just words but I thought it’d be easier for you to recover if you weren’t looking at _him,_ me I mean but we’re kinda the same thing, right?” The words came out tainted with rage, a feeling of gall overwhelming him. “I know you’ve told me that I am not, but whenever I asked you about what happened while he— you were always so reluctant to talk that my minds draws the most horrible pictures and I—”

He couldn’t utter a sound because his voice broke at his mere thoughts. He buried his face in his hands, the scream that he didn’t let out vibrated in his throat turning it to sand paper. His eyes stung as they brimmed with tears. He sniffed and wiped them away roughly with his sleeve.

"I thought that it was for the best, that if you didn’t see me that much then there were less chances that I triggered something— But in the end leaving you alone has done more harm than good," his voice went down then, filled with emotion and remorse, "for both of us, right? And I have to realise now when you nearly died because of me, _again_ , that actually the worst would be living without having you around, Lydia Martin.”

Stiles didn’t fight back the tears then either, which would be the point? And even when he wanted to get over her, to let his heart follow a different path, he couldn’t. He couldn’t because Stiles Stilinski could bear the thought of his girlfriend being utterly mad at him, but not the one of leaving Lydia; because he could even stand the thought of Malia leaving him —even if it would cause him pain for a while— but his mind couldn’t even conjure the idea of leaving Lydia out of his life. It was as if he was sure he wouldn’t be able to function without her. Cross that out, he couldn’t imagine how it would be trying to merely _exist_ knowing she was no more.

So it struck him with the sheer force of a punch. He could fancy someone, he could even like someone, but he could never ever guide his heart in the process of falling in love.

"I’m sorry."

It was just one apology that tried to make up for all the times he’d pushed her aside, for all the times he had hurt her without knowing it— for not having protected her, and ultimately for having run away in the opposite direction when his heart had been pointing towards the right path all along.

Because he had had a crush on Lydia Martin when he was eight, but once Stiles started to know her, when they became closer, he realised he loved her for everything that she was —and not the idealized idea of her he had once had. He loved her from her banter to her vindictive comebacks; he loved for her intelligence to her compassion. He cherished even her flawed parts, the ones she tucked away from the sight of everyone.

And the saddest part is that it had taken him _this_ to realise. Tears kept meandering down his face, their paths itched and stung. He tried to swallow them up, sniffing loudly, but there was no use. He harshly brought his arm to his face to—

Or he tried. When he recoiled backwards, an alien pressure around his wrist left him static. His blurred gaze made out fingers wrapped around his wrists. He squeezed his eyes shut, and when his vision cleared a bit, Stiles distinguished Lydia staring at him —the corners of her eyes wrinkled up with a shadow of a smile, brightening up her glimmering green eyes.

Tears kept streaming from his eyes, but this time they didn’t have a bitter taste. This time they were of pure joy, joy that left him perplexed and staring right back into Lydia’s eyes.

"How much of it did you hear?" Stiles asked; his eyebrows arched out of curiosity.

Lydia made a frown, nose twitching, when swallowing the chunk of boiled pumpkin. She had been admitted for a while now, the doctors wanted to keep her monitored for a few more days before discharging her —just to make sure there were no complications with her recovery, and that the surgery had been successful.

She finished reading Kira’s notes on the last calculus class before answering. “Does it matter?” She shrugged; her voice calm and composed.

Stiles was biting absently the plastic end of his green highlighter when she spoke, but couldn’t fight down smiling nonetheless. He shrugged in turn as well, proving her point. They kept reading silently, while nibbling at their respective lunches. Minutes ticked by, and the only sounds there heard were the rustle of paper and faint whisper of the pencil leads against the pages, alternated with some occasional grunts of frustration or hums of satisfaction.

Most of the hums came from Lydia, while most of the grunts came from Stiles. So hence Stiles confusion when suddenly a grunt did not only came from Lydia’s direction, but turned into an exasperated groan. He cast aside biology and genetics theories for a moment and rose to his feet. The chunk of photocopied notes had been casted aside; the pencil probably was on the floor. He couldn’t help but chuckle at Lydia’s frown, although when the girl shot him a murdering look his face fell, apologetically.

"May I—" he asked, cautious, treading on egg-shells.

Lydia nodded and sighed. Stiles grabbed the lock of strawberry blonde hair that had loosened and ultimately fallen from her messy bun, and tidied it behind her ear. There was still a long way to go until she could stretch every muscle without feeling a shot of pain through her abdomen. But Stiles was sure she’d get there, in time, just as Melissa’s had predicted not so long ago.

He could emphasise with her frustration, though. He’d known first-hand what it was like to feel helpless. That was the reason why, instead of returning to his seat on the nearby chair, he chose to sit on the edge of the bed, next to her.  The absence of change in her mood even then made him frown, slightly worried that Lydia was either too frustrated or that he might had stepped too far with the innocent laugh, and made her get hot under the collar.

"Hey, are you okay?"

No answer. Stiles knew that giving her current state of frustration and anger perhaps what he was about to do was a bold move. But he did it anyway. Lydia somewhat shrank when Stiles lifted her chin up with his fingers.

"You know you just need time, until you recover from those injuries," he said, his thumb distractedly caressing her chin.

Lydia closed her eyes. Stiles’ hand spread and cupped her cheek at the discouraging disappointment speaking through her body language. She seemed to lean on his hand. Stiles’ heart missed a beat when her fingers wrapped around his forearm, right below the wrist. Lydia stroked his arm gently, fingertips quivering, before her eyelids fluttered open.

 The warmth of her sigh collided with his skin and send shivers down his spine. His hands itched and his chest grew heavier, as the urge to lean in increased. But Stiles just locked his gaze with hers. Only when Lydia’s thumb brushed against his skin again, did her gaze fall from her eyes to her lips and then back to her eyes.

"So— you haven’t heard from Malia?" She whispered.

"Not since the break-up, no. I think she already suspected it, one way or the other." Stiles whispered back, suddenly too conscious that she wasn’t looking at him in the eye but rather her eyes were focused on his lips. Stiles guessed she must been smiling, her cheek wrinkled under his palm.

"Good, because I wouldn’t have wanted to—"

Stiles would never know if it was him who silenced the statement, or if Lydia had already stopped talking when he covered her lips with his. What he did feel, though, was that she smiled because both of his hands were on either side of her face. The kiss was soft and breath-taking, just as the one they have once shared. But this time it was Stiles who pulled away; and this time he didn’t stare at her puzzled —he gasped, suddenly breathless, and chuckled.

And before he could start having any kind of second thoughts his hand was on the back of her neck, nesting into her hair, and pulling her down for another kiss. He found no resistance on Lydia’s side, rather a welcome. A welcome that turned warmer and warmer as the kisses deepened and they outpoured the feelings they’d kept both bottled up for so long.

Their bubble popped up suddenly when they heard a loud thud. They both jumped, startled, to saw a very embarrassed Kira stepping inside the room. The books she might have been holding against her chest were scattered on the floor, and her backpack was swinging from one of her arms.

Her cheeks flushed even more furiously when she tried to speak and couldn’t utter a word. She just stared at them, her lips rounded. When Stiles and Lydia flinched away from each other without as much as subtlety, Kira made a sound which Stiles was pretty sure had been an excited squeal.

"I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Don’t mind me, keep going with whatever you were doing, I was never here—" She turned around facing the floor, cheeks bright red from embarrassment. Kira stumped in her quick way out and murmured something along the lines of "I feel like I am the Council of this ship, for God’s sake!" as she hurried to the reception.

"What did she mean by that?" Lydia asked, genuinely bewildered.

"Do you _really_ want me to answer that question, and go into an in-depth description of the prohibitions to form attachments imposed by the Council on Jedi after the first restoration of the Galactic Republic?” He answered, matter-of-factly, one eyebrow quirked. The smile that then curled his lips was pretty challenging.

Lydia blinked, half stunned, half perplexed at his enthusiastic rant; but then frowned with irritation.

"Although your face is giving me this vibe that you’ll hate me for it, I’ll have to clarify that if you don’t say no I’ll take it as a yes," Stiles retorted with a smug expression on his face, Lydia’s frown deepened, "So in the—"

He never got to finish that sentence, though. When they broke off it was Lydia’s turn to smile full of herself, and it was the boy who had to hold back a chuckle at the sight of pride in her every feature. His hand found its way back to her nape, the smugness in her eyes faded as her eyelids fluttered. The girl whispered something, the words almost alien to her tongue. She said something about being cautious, that anyone could burst through the door any second.

Little did they know that such a thing wouldn’t be happening any time soon, or for a few more minutes at least. Scott had hurried down the hall when he spotted his mum, and dragged her enthusiastically by the arm babbling something about Isaac and how imperative it was that she met Nina.

As the woman chatted with the teenage girl that had somehow managed to pick the broken pieces of Isaac’s heart, the boy in question chuckled at the sight of Scott’s beaming smile.

"So —finally, uh?"

Scott merely nodded.


End file.
